Deflated

Sometimes, I feel empty. Instead of becoming filled to bursting with emotion, joy, sadness, grief, accomplishment, security and hope I get nothing. It as if I were a child, watching with glee as someone fills a shiny red balloon for me. They fill it, and I'm filled with joy and sadness: soon it will be mine! But I know that just as quickly, it will lose it's magic, and slump to the floor behind the couch for my mom to find weeks later. They're about to hand it to me when it deflates, leaving a sad, wrinkled shell behind. And turns out they're now out of helium. Holding my husk of what would have been a child's dream, I have to walk away. Only now, I don't have my Dad's huge hand covering mine to make the loss less exquisite.

My mind sometimes makes the command decision to give me nothing in hopes of retaining a semblance of normality, as opposed to succumbing to the tumultuous hurricane of thoughts for fear of drowning. And I'm left without the not even a scrap of emotional honesty to wrap my life around.

I'm not sure what worse: an accidental emotional onslaught that leaves me shaky, confused, tears standing in my eyes, refuting the urge to crawl into a small dark quiet places or the sudden feeling of it all evaporating, flees leaving me reaching, thrusting for at least one of the feelings that grabbed at my brain mere moments before, even more empty and alone then before.